


A Very Modern Ghost Story

by BatBoyBlog



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Haunting, ghost - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 19:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17028627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BatBoyBlog/pseuds/BatBoyBlog
Summary: a little bit of writing that I did, for no reason, I’m still working on it, maybe I’ll write more, who knows





	A Very Modern Ghost Story

I wake up with a start and sit up in bed. I take a few shaky breaths trying to slow my racing heart. I push my too long hair out of my eyes, I need a haircut. I settle my square glasses on my face. They’re big blocky Buddy Holly things, I hate them, but my mother thought they made me look handsome. The room slides into focus, even in the dark I can see the piles of clothes on the floor and the posters for bands I don’t listen to on the walls, I look at the clock and swear. My shift starts in less than an hour. 

It all I can do to drag myself out of bed and toward the closet sized bathroom in my tiny apartment. I shuffle down the hallway between my bedroom and the bathroom. It’s so narrow that two people couldn’t pass each other without one flattening against the wall. I try to ignore the cracked paint on one side and the peeling wallpaper on the other. I slide through bathroom door that never closes all the way.

I stare at my reflection in the cheep dirty mirror. I’m not much to look at, painfully white with freckles that I used to get teased about in middle school. There are a few zits that will never fully clear. My brown hair is flat and too long. My skinny chest has a slightly pathetic tuft of hair, which is better than my chin can manage. I blink my hazel eyes that my glasses make look so massive before turning away.

I pull off my boxers and turn on the shower, the water splutters and the pipes bang for a minute before a spray of cold water comes firing out. I stand under the spray as it slowly warms up and let the water pass through me. I count the cracked and yellowing titles in the shower stall. I must be drifting off because I jerk upright when I hear a bang from the bedroom. There’s a shuffle of feet in the hallway. My roommate Chaz pulls open the bathroom door.

Chaz is a skinny guy, sometimes I worry he doesn’t get enough to eat I count his ribs under his brown skin. Both his parents were born in India, but he’s American as Xbox and kissing other boys. His fohawk isn’t gelled up so his ink black hair is a mess. He’s wearing his rattiest pair of boxers, the pair with the British flag all over them. So I know he needs to do his laundry. He glares at me with bleary eyes for a few seconds before walking to the shower. He jerks back the clear plastic curtain and turns off the water. “Fucking plumbing in this place” He grumbles before turning away and shuffling off toward his bedroom. I hear him say “who the fuck ever heard of showers that turn on on their own?”

I feel bad because Chaz was working late last night. I didn’t mean to wake him. Chaz is just 17, he lied to the landlord and said he was 18 to get the lease on the apartment. Not that our landlord gives a fuck, Chaz pays the rent on time that’s all that matters to him. I guess the boys Chaz likes to kiss didn’t go over well with mom and dad. He’s only talked to his mother once since he moved out his house and into the apartment. A tear filled hour about three months after he moved in. As far as I know he hasn’t talked to his dad since he left home.

I shuffle into the bedroom and hunt around for my work clothes. Black pants, and a green vest. I pull them on and try to pat out the wrinkles as best I can. I check that my sliver nametag with company logo on it is pinned to my chest. “Martin” it says in black print, in small print under my name it says “barista”. I look over at Chaz sprawled out face down on the bed. I can’t tell if he’s asleep or not. “Sorry for waking you” I say, but he can’t hear me. I walk through the front door of our apartment.

My name is Martin Forester, I’m 6 foot 1 inches tall, 134 pounds, I’m 19 years old, I died 6 months 3 days and 13 hours ago, and if I don’t hurry I’ll be late to work.


End file.
